The Short and Simple Story of the 9th Hunger Games
by Idalove2read
Summary: Her name is drawn: tough luck. Wylla's story is one of success, pain, determination and compliance. She learnt early on that in the Hunger Games, all actions come at a cost; in the end, it is easier to become a poster-girl Victor for the Capitol than a dead soul among the rotting corpses of your family members. Other victors can retort all they want, she never regrets her decision.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello readers! I just wanted to say that I am super excited to be posting my first fanfiction, and I hope you all like it! As explained in the summary, it is the story of a strongwilled girl from District 7 who becomes the Victor of the 9th Hunger Games. The storyline is quite simple and does not concentrate on Wylla's time IN the Games, rather the events surrounding them/Wylla's reactions. Please review if you feel like it, because constructive criticism is what makes the world go round *so cheeeeesy I know, but seriously, I would LOVE reviews, because then I'd know what to improve on/if people like the story*For future plans (aka Christmas break), I will probably write a longer story on Wylla's journey in the Games, if people read/like this one.**

 **Without further ado...**

The 9th Hunger Games

When her name was called, the only thing Wylla could do was dutifully drop a loud F-bomb and stomp up on the stage, aggressively pushing away the arms of the Peacekeepers that wanted to assist her. She stood on the stage, her arms shaking slightly, and glared with smoldering hatred towards the silent starved crowd. She knew no one would volunteer, because she had no older sisters and her friends did not like her enough to risk their life for her in the Hunger Games. Even as charming as she was, no one was ready to literally throw their life away for her sake. She almost smirked at that thought; swearing at your own reaping for all of Panem to hear… _charming_ , indeed.

"Now for the boys," the escort shrilly exclaimed and Wylla had to muster all of her remaining self-control to not physically cringe away from the horrid sound.

The only thing she could think of was that statistically, siblings almost never went into the games together, so hopefully Fate would not completely fuck her over by pitting her against her own little brother. That being said, she had never been good at math or statistics, and Life usually found a way of screwing her over. Holy crap. Holy _crap._ That definitely did not help quell the crazed hammering of her heart against her ribcage at the thought of her brother being reaped. She had to bite back a full-fledged exclamation of relief as an unknown sixteen year old boy stepped on stage shakily, after his name had been called.

They shook hands, her grip firm and angry, his, meek and clammy. The boy's family was seen sobbing in the roped-up area where the adults stood. His elder brothers were all obviously too old to volunteer, bearing strained guilt-ridden expressions on their faces. Cold relief and sadness was permeable in the air of District 7.

As Wylla entered the Justice Building, her own family flooded in, their haunted and sorrow-filled eyes scanning her face. Her father and mother simultaneously flung their arms around her, and on any other occasion, Wylla would have pushed them away awkwardly. This time though was obviously an exception, due to the fact that no matter what happened in the arena, she knew she would never come back the same. Hell, might as well give in to human emotions once in a while.

As they helplessly whispered empty encouragements into her ears, a question, **ONE** question burned on her tongue, and she knew that this was the last chance she had to ask it.

"Will you have me back?"

Slightly bewildered, her parents looked at her, pushing her slightly back at arm's length to try to decipher the meaning of her words. Wylla mentally kicked herself. She had never been good with words.

"I mean, will you have me back, no matter how broken and ugly and disgusting I am going to be? Because, honestly, I am stuck in this crap and realistically it's going to take a lot of effort to get out of it, and I'm wondering if it's even worth it, because-" _because I would have nothing to live for, if it wasn't for my family, and I would kill and slaughter mercilessly if it meant that I could come back to you-_

"Yes, of course we will," her father cut off her flow of words that just kept tumbling out of her mouth. "No matter what you become in there, do anything, ANYTHING in your power to get out, and we will be here to fix you," he said gruffly. "We love you so much Wylla."

Just those words were enough. A mask of determination cemented Wylla's features in that moment. She would come back, no matter the price.

Her brother came in soon after and there were no tears in his eyes. Only the same angry determined expression that Wylla had seen reflected back at her on the screens of the Square, when she was reaped. It was so strikingly similar that she almost laughed. Without saying a word, he gave her a hug. At that moment, Wylla realized how much he had grown.

And what he said next echoed in her ears, like a motto that drilled her on in moments of utter despair. His voice held no venom, it was calculating and even, as though he was simply stating a well-known fact.

"You will come back Wylla. Kill them all." And just like that, she was whisked away onto the train, and towards the Capitol.


	2. Chapter 2

"Well Demetrius, the food is certainly worthwhile," Wylla shot back, a wolf grin spreading on her glowing face. The glaring lights made her black dress look stunningly deadly, the red rubies trailing down her thigh and sparkling like tiny droplets of blood. Wylla had smiled at the irony as her prep team presented her with the outfit. She had even commented on it, alluding to the foreshadowing of a potential deadly injury to her escort. "Like, imagine me getting stabbed right here, above the spleen." Cue an unimpressed stare from her escort. "If that happens, promote these assholes, they would deserve it." Of course, she had been referring to her prep team, since they would have displayed forecasting qualities the likes of which Panem has never seen. Then again, her escort did not agree with her particular sense of humor nor her colorful language. Needless to say, the pompous woman was not impressed.

As the interview went on, Wylla actually remembered her escort's many comments: "Honey, you are going to go for desirable and sarcastic…oh for the Capitol's sake, that chicken is dripping all over your clothes stOP THAT, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU HAVE TO AT LEAST TRY TO LOOK ATTRACTIVE!" It was true, Wylla had made sure to take every opportunity to stock up on fats and "heavy" food (which is what her father called bread and the "special" soppy spaghetti they had once a year), so as to increase her body mass. She knew from previous years that starvation was a huge factor in the Games, and she was willing to give herself as big of a head start as possible. The escort was absolutely disgusted, but Wylla cursed at her once, and sent her to her compartment for the entire day.

Right now though, the cursing, vulgar, brutally honest, cynical Wylla was buried deep down in her core, replaced by a joking, attractive slightly sarcastic femme fatale that was sprawled elegantly on the couch. The host, Demetrius, was easy enough to talk to, and the crowd ate up everything Wylla said so easily she wanted to laugh and cry and scream at their ignorance, cruelty and hypocrisy.

"You are absolutely ravishing my dear, how are you doing tonight?" _I want to punch you in your perfect little pearl-white teeth._

"Oh Demetrius, I really couldn't do any better! Here, I am _truly_ in my element," Wylla gushed, as she shifted her position and exposed her long legs. _Lies._ Everything that escaped her ruby lips were lies. It was disgusting. "So many pretty boys and girls out there lookin' at me, I don't think I can wait for my victory tour to _talk_ to all of them."

Even if she hated to admit it, the screams and whistles of the cheering crowd haunted Wylla almost as much as the agony-filled screeches of the dying tributes afterwards.


	3. Chapter 3

This year, the Career Pack was weaker than usual; the girls were all talk and no show, and none of the boys had what it took. Together, they displayed minimal talent, and although they overcompensated with their loud and boastful remarks, Wylla singled them out as insignificant competition. Despite this, the lanky boy from 6 sent chills down her spine, and the cackling schizophrenic girl from 9 was an unpredictable bomb ready to explode at any moment.

 _You will come back Wylla. Kill them all._

The night before she was sent into the arena, Wylla lay in her bed, reciting this mantra. She knew that to win, she would have to play by the Capitol rules; that she would become a monster, and despite all her efforts, she might even die. But she was ready to shoulder all the regrets that came with killing, if it meant to live.


	4. Chapter 4

-3….2….1….

 _ **GONG!**_

Wylla always hated running, but she welcomed the feeling of burning in her lungs and the searing pressure in her legs as she propelled her entire body towards the Cornucopia. Her mentor had advised her to run away, due to her score. She had gotten a 7 and had been disappointed since she thought she should have scored even lower. Apparently missing half your targets with throwing knives and smashing a dummy's brains in with four lousy strokes and a whole lot of grunting and cursing earns you a respectable 7, when compared with a bunch of dawdling idiots who cannot even stuck their thumbs up their ass properly. So much for the "underdog pretty girl" overkill.

In any case, the scores are worth shit once you are fighting for your life.

Wylla is the fifth person to arrive to the place where the weapons were located, and the first to send a fifteen year old girl flying backwards in a spray of her blood.


	5. Chapter 5

Twenty three cannons later, they took her out of the arena, laughing, screaming, crying and cackling, her own blood soaking her shirt as she clawed at her ruined stomach with her right hand. Her left hand still held the battle axe: her weapon of choice in the arena. The District 6 boy lay at her feet, his skull brutally caved in as Wylla became the Victor of the 9th Hunger Games.

The music blared the victory anthem, as Wylla looked up to the skies and laughed and screamed as tears streamed down her filth-ridden face because she made it. She beat the odds and was coming home.

* * *

"Now tell us, Wylla, if you could do one thing differently in these iconic games, what would you change?"

 _I would have died. Anything to make the nightmares stop._

"I don't know Demetrius…maybe bring a beaded necklace token, you know… to throw it at the other tributes' plates. Hahaha…imagine how quickly I could have taken out competition in the first few seconds?" A lazy smile permanently plastered on her face, Wylla almost reeled backwards, the lights and crowd swimming in front of her eyes.

"Well, darling, regardless, you're the most decorated victor thus far, earning a total of 9 kills to your name. That's a feat we're all jealous of, aren't we folks?"

She had been on some intense drugs during her Victory interview, numbing the uncontrollable pain in her abdomen (a result of the wound the District 6 boy had inflicted before dying). Thinking back to it, Wylla realized how stupid her comment about the beaded necklace token had been; she had paid for it. It had earned her a cryptic letter from the president herself and extra "clients" throughout the following week.

The worst shock had come with the untimely disappearance of her best friend Sili when Wylla came back to District 7. It was reported that authorities had found Sili three days later, dumped in the river, her body mutilated beyond recognition. The message was clear.

As funny as it sounded, even the Hunger Games, proclaimed as a no-rule game, had some guidelines that must be abided by. An implicit new instruction was added in the years that followed: no tokens could be thrown from the tribute plates before the end of the countdown. If not….well, everyone understood the implicit punishment faced by anyone who disobeyed the Capitol.


	6. Chapter 6

No one understood the implications of being a victor better than Wylla. Obviously, there was always a threat if the given expectations were not met consistently. Which is why after this small incident (the casual mentioning of beaded necklaces thrown at explosive plates apparently did not sit well with Capitolites), Wylla dutifully returned to her home life, settling in Victor's Village. Week after week, she fulfilled her duty; after all, she was the Capitol's pretty plaything, ready to serve whenever it pleased them. It was disgusting and necessary. In her first year as a mentor, her tributes were slaughtered in the first five minutes of the bloodbath by the district 6 boy. A sucker for symbolism, the morbid irony of the situation did not escape Wylla.

The winner this year was a forgettable District 3 boy, who went insane after the first four days, after building a sort of explosive that dispersed a poison he collected from the mutated scorpions he killed before going ballistic. Despite the antidote he consumed previously, the poison mangled his brain beyond repair; he somehow miraculously survived, screaming his fool head off non-stop while the other tributes died within hours of the toxin's release in the arena. No matter the finest technology in the Capitol, he was reduced to living out the remainder of his days as a lunatic and a cripple.

In any case, it was none of Wylla's business.

* * *

She was a warrior and a survivor, and it was only fitting that Wylla remained the golden figure of the Hunger Games victory for the following eight years. The decade following her victory was rightfully dubbed the "Invisible victor Age", since the games disappointingly yielded crippled, emotionally traumatized or insane weaklings that were useless to the Capitol. The girl from District 7 who methodically wiped out her entire competition with a battle axe and her sharp wit in order to return to her family… now _that_ is someone the Capitol can work with. But, as the years wore on, Wylla's radiant dangerous smile faltered on more than a few occasions. The bright cold and luring eyes lost a little bit of their passion. And sometimes, it would seem that the smoldering fire beneath Wylla's core was replaced by ashes and the unforgiving cold grief that comes with years of experiencing death up close.

Yet, when asked if winning was worth it (in hushed voices at a given Capitol bar, where the music was too loud to discern any treasonous conversations), Wylla's fire reignited as she stated that she would not trade her victory for anything in the world. And when asked how she had coped for all these years, Wylla simply responded that no matter the sheer amount of agony and pain she has endured, her family was always there to welcome her back, and that she would go through the arena another thousand times if it meant that she got to be with them.

Many victors fell into the trap of thinking that their victory made them invincible. That cost them their families, their significant others, their friends. Most ended up overdosing or drowning in their tubs, found dead before the fifth month of their victory has passed. But Wylla had been careful: one reminder had been enough to make her realize that the Capitol held her by her pale little neck and could squeeze her windpipe shut before she even had the chance to scream. Her friend Sili had been the only needed threat to make Wylla the Capitol's perfect soldier. Undeniably, she was a monster, but at least, she got to keep the ones she loved safe.

And in the end, it was worth it.


End file.
